Open Letter To Parents Seeking Nannies
I am sure your children are lovely. Nevertheless, I’m going to have to say “thanks but no thanks” to the nanny thing. I am looking for a career. I am trying to be a grown-up, get dolla’ bills, and put my as-yet-unpaid-for education to good use. Frankly, parents, your rampant Nanny Wanted ads are getting in the way of my success.
First of all, you don’t have to put every possible keyword under the sun into your post when you write it. I could enter “Molecular biologist jobs” into a search and come up with one molecular biology position, seven hundred administrative assistant jobs, and a million nanny listings. They are scientists, people. SCIENTISTS. Have some respect.
Oh yes, it’s also very cute how you wrote the job post as if your newborn and his two-year-old brother composed it together. That was not lost on this lowly job seeker! I’m sure two babies are really into their nanny having “reliable transportation.” They probably sat down in the office together after dumping in their own drawers, rolled up the sleeves of their onesies, put their soft heads together and came up with a working draft. I can just imagine it. You read it and were all like, “Madison, Kennedy, this is perfectly written. Exactly what I was thinking, too! Quickly, lets post this to the World Wide Web and then have a light snack of kale chips and organic carrot juice!”
Then you remember that infants aren’t supposed to eat kale chips and call for Carmella, your wet nurse.
Am I really supposed to regularly take your kids to museums and zoos and art galleries? I don’t even get to go to those places and I can read and go to the bathroom by myself. Going with your hell spawn does not count as a perk, so don’t even try to argue that angle. I’ll be too busy yelling at them not to touch stuff, wiping their boogers, and trying in vain to instill within their souls a life-long love for art and culture to enjoy anything. Jerks.
And about this desiring a caretaker who “creates whimsy” thing. Can one be certified in Whimsy-Making? You have seen Mary Poppins one too many times. Your children are five. Everything is whimsical. A pile of white, dried out dog poop can be whimsical to a kid if you tell them its wizard dust. When I was growing up, my parents straight up forgot to be the tooth fairy once and refused have Santa give me a Stretch Armstrong for Christmas. And look at me, I turned out just fine and absolutely not bitter about it whatsoever.
I don’t even want to touch the subject of those of you who need a “housekeeper,” but I’m going to anyway. So, in addition to taking care of your children, I get the joy of taking care of your entire household too — the dog, the cleaning, the phone answering, the grocery shopping, the laundry, etc. etc. — before shuffling home to my own squalor? Or, if I’m even luckier, I can have the privilege of being all up in your sh-t constantly and live in the “shabby-chic” room you jury-rigged in the attic of your brownstone? Hot diggity dog, sign me up!
How is this all still a thing? It is 2012. In three years we were supposed to have flying cars. We already have robot vacuums. If you can’t do the keeping of your own house, for the love of other people’s dignity, maybe, just maybe, you shouldn’t have one.
I know, I know. You are busy, and you and your partner both work so much that it is simply impossible to find the time to fit in the gym and Whole Foods and rearing your children. It is a predicament. Don’t get me wrong; I do think it is important for people to have jobs, if only for the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment that some weirdos get from employment. I wouldn’t ask you to give that up and stay home with the kids if it keeps you from going crazy. Plus, I’m sure there are people out there who genuinely enjoy taking care of your small ones.
But that person is not me. Sometimes, kids are gross. Sometimes they say mean things because they have no filters. Sometimes they bust out in full-on stiff as a board on the floor temper tantrums in the check out line. And no matter what, nobody is going to love your kids and all their foibles and sticky hands as much as you do. Just remember this.
And stay out of my job search.
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Even as I write this now I am debating whether or not to erase it all together.
When I say I’m in love with you, I mean I love the story I can tell to my next lover, about my ex-lover, about how beautiful things were, how intense, how storybook, what a couple we were, and how you gradually, inexplicably, painfully, bit by bit, disappeared.
“I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me, but now I’m more afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter.”
I was 24 and, while not gay, ever since college I had been getting more attention from gay men than from heterosexual women.